


More Tangible than Type

by hoc_voluerunt



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 15:19:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoc_voluerunt/pseuds/hoc_voluerunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes doesn't miss people; but of course, John's always managed to be the exception to the rule. (Inspired by a real life experience of my own.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Tangible than Type

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [at my LJ](http://hoc-voluerunt.livejournal.com/21250.html#cutid2) in January 2011.

            John had been gone for a week when it happened.

            Sherlock had woken to an unfamiliar tightness somewhere in his chest. He knew immediately that it wasn't a physiological problem, but its cause was still strangely hidden from him. He skipped breakfast, as usual – John would have chastised him, but he was in Scotland for a fortnight-long Watson family reunion, and Sherlock was left to skip meals in peace.

            His latest case had come to its conclusion two days ago – a neat little case concerning the theft of a watch and the smell of baking apple pies at three in the morning – and Sherlock had since had to occupy himself with experiments and the occasional musical interlude. On the one hand, with the flat to himself, he didn't have to deal with John's attempts to stop the smells or the sounds; but on the other hand, it felt like there was something missing when Sherlock wasn't able to wake to John's shouting at him from the kitchen about the severed leg curled in the crisper.

            That was just the problem, Sherlock mused. The flat was too quiet and too empty without John. Even if the doctor had only been sitting in his chair, reading or napping or painstakingly typing up his blog, there would have been the sound of his breathing, the faint, comfortable smell of his jumpers and the abstract awareness of his presence. Sherlock didn't like it when his convoluted version of routine was interrupted, and John's absence was doing just that.

            Though that didn't explain the empty, pressing twist that had begun to drop from his sternum to his stomach.

            Deciding that this required inspection, Sherlock took up his violin and slouched in his armchair, staring at the Union Jack cushion caught in the crook of the chair opposite him. He plucked absently at the melody of one of Mendelssohn's  _Songs Without Words_ , listening to the silence of John's absence and trying to discern the meaning of the pressure around his heart.

            His first realisation came easily enough, and was more of an instinctual understanding than a deductive effort: the feeling was related to John. He knew it in the same way that he knew how to breathe; though, similarly, he couldn't quite fathom the  _why._  Of course, he knew  _why_  he had to breathe – to inhale oxygen to keep him alive – but not why it was still seen as necessary. As he'd told John months ago, breathing was  _boring,_ and sometimes he felt that the best option was to simply stop doing it altogether.

            John would have protested, of course; but that was just what John did, wasn't it? Kept Sherlock alive, despite his efforts.

            Sighing irritably, Sherlock set his mind back on track and started bowing at a different melody.

            He wasn't worried, that much was certain. John was a capable man – he'd survived a war for goodness' sake – and he was only going to a family reunion. There was still the lingering threat of someone targeting him for his part in Sherlock's work; but if Sherlock spent all his time worrying about such abstract notions of danger, he'd never get anything done. And besides, John had sent him two emails during his absence, one only hours after his arrival in Edinburgh, and another three days ago, mostly comprised of complaints about his sister and the all-encompassing boredom. Though, if Sherlock was honest with himself, three days was far too long to go without hearing from his doctor. The typed words were nothing like the real thing – John's voice, his breathy laughs, the creases on his forehead and around his eyes, the way he licked his lips almost compulsively; his dirty-blonde hair, kept militarily short and neat, and the way he still managed to occasionally look down at his hands – the left miraculously tremor-free and the right empty of the handle of a cane – and smile to himself, as if he couldn't believe his luck.

            No, words on a screen did nothing to convey the warmth of John's presence, with his lingering tan and woollen jumpers. The neat, Arial characters were nothing like the scrawled, almost-illegible notes that John sometimes left around the flat, nonchalantly supporting the cliché of doctors and bad handwriting. Black type on a white screen couldn't even attempt to convey the kind of depth of emotion that John could show in a single expression, with his eyes and his stance and his mouth.

            And even though he had once more wandered away from any train of thought that had to do with the tightness in his chest, Sherlock was suddenly hit with a jolt of understanding. With a screech of the violin, he sat up quickly, staring ahead at nothing.

            He missed John.

            He  _missed John._

            It wasn't a feeling he was at all used to – he hadn't  _missed_  anyone since he was a child and Mycroft had left for boarding school; and yet here he sat, craving John's voice and smile and mind and simple  _presence_  so much that the feeling had manifested itself physically.

            Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. How very  _like_  John to make him understand by leading him away from the more obviously relevant paths of thinking. Though the thought did nothing to alleviate the feeling, it did make him put away the violin.

            As if on cue, his mobile rang, buzzing from the desk. Sherlock stood, his bow still in hand, and took two long strides over toward the windows, glancing down at the lit-up screen of his phone.

            John was calling.

            Sherlock grinned and placed his bow carefully among the papers strewn across the table, picking up the phone.

            “John?”

            “Hey, Sherlock.” Sherlock could practically  _hear_  the relieved smile that John was no doubt cracking. “I was hoping you'd pick up.”

            “That is what's usually done when a phone rings,” Sherlock replied, unable to stop himself from smiling, especially when John snorted softly on the other end.

            “Yeah, but you've never exactly been  _usual,_ have you?” John quipped, causing Sherlock to chuckle softly in his chest. The doctor's voice was tinny and soft, but it was there nonetheless – something more tangible than type, at least.

            “Any particular reason for this call?” Sherlock asked, starting to slowly pace around the sitting room, his fingertips absently toying with the furniture.

            John made a shrugging noise. “Not really,” he said. “Apart from the fact that I'm bored out of my skull. Got anything interesting to soliloquise about?”

            “The last case finished two days ago,” Sherlock sighed, “and, as requested, I emailed you the details.”

            “Do I want to ask about the experiments that are inevitably ruining our kitchen?” asked John, a hint of mocking apprehension in his voice.

            “I wouldn't encourage it, no,” Sherlock replied, and relished the answering huff of laughter on the other end. On a sudden, irrational impulse, he blurted out, “Tell me what  _you're_ doing.”

            He could almost hear the raised eyebrows. “You want  _me_  to do the talking?” John asked disbelievingly. “When  _you_ could be the centre of attention? Who are you and what have you done to my flatmate?”

            Sherlock gave a token frown at the joke. “Well,  _someone_  needs to talk, and since I don't have anything to say, and you no doubt have a thousand petty complaints that need an ear, it seems the most expedient route.”

            John sighed, his breath rushing loudly through the receiver at Sherlock's ear. “You're right about the complaints, that's for sure,” he said, turning suddenly irritable. “I don't think Harry's been sober since she got here. And my Uncle Hamish –”

            “Your middle name,” Sherlock interrupted. “Namesake?”

            “Yeah,” John sighed, “apparently Dad was so ignorant about his brother that he thought it'd be a good idea to give his name to his son. There's a reason I try to keep it to an initial.”

            “You don't like him,” Sherlock concluded.

            John sighed again, this time sounding more resigned than annoyed. “He doesn't  _approve_  of me,” he said. “And ever since Dad died, he's seen it as his  _responsibility_  to make sure I make something of myself. Can't believe the bastard's still alive. He was fine when I was in med school – doctor's make money and all, don't they – but when I decided to join the army he tried to stop me. Took a year to convince him it was the right thing to do. Then I decided to join the RAMC.”

            “He can't be  _that_  old-fashioned,” said Sherlock, frowning.

            “Yep,” John grumbled, and adopted a low, growling, authoritative voice with a heavy Scottish accent. “'Look, John, we agreed that you could go into this to defend your country, but I won't have you wasting your time if you won't be shooting anything.'” He made a strangled sound of frustration and switched back to his own voice. “Apparently stitching up soldiers in the middle of a fire fight and saving their God-damn  _lives_  isn't enough for my country.”

            “John,” Sherlock started, but the doctor had begun his rant and wasn't going to stop until he was done.

            “I mean, who does he think he is, anyway? Bloody hell, I'm almost forty! Even if he  _was_  my father, that doesn't mean he can try to run my life for me. He  _still_  holds a grudge against me for not shooting Nazis or whatever it was he was expecting when I signed up. And now he's heard about what I do with  _you_  he's become bloody insufferable.”

            Sherlock frowned. “What's wrong with our life?” he said defensively.

            “Apparently it's not a  _real job,_ or so says the all-knowing Uncle Hamish,” John growled. “Running around after you, catching criminals, no steady income – he didn't even  _believe_  me until I showed him that article from last week's triple murder.”

            “Do you  _still_  have that in your wallet?” Sherlock asked, trying to sound disapproving while hiding his flattered pleasure.

            “Well, it was a big deal,” John said evasively, and Sherlock could practically  _see_  the way he squirmed in his seat. “But anyway – Uncle Hamish is being unbearable, but at least you've been useful for something.”

            Sherlock raised his eyebrows, certain that John knew he was doing it. “Oh really?” he said curiously.

            “Yeah,” said John. “A bunch of my cousins – and  _second_  cousins, god, I can't believe how  _old_ I'm getting – they've got kids, you see – young kids. And since I'm apparently the only one who doesn't have to deal with them on a regular basis, I keep getting baby-sitting duty.”

            “I'm sure you were overjoyed at the news,” Sherlock deadpanned, and John huffed a laugh.

            “Yeah, well, I've figured out a foolproof way to get them to shut up and calm down,” said John.

            “And that would be?” Sherlock asked, slightly apprehensive.

            “Us,” John answered, evidently beaming.

            “Us?” Sherlock repeated – he'd found himself making far-too-frequent use of such a distasteful habit around John.

            “Stories about what Uncle Hamish is so disapproving of,” John explained. “The kids love them. The adventures of the great Sherlock Holmes, dashing through London in his dramatically flaring coat, outsmarting criminals and Scotland Yard and always figuring it out twelve steps ahead of everyone else.”

            “I'm not a superhero, John,” said Sherlock, but John sounded so pleased that he could hardly stay angry for long.

            “'Course you're not,” he said lightly, “but you've got to admit, it's not much of a stretch, and the kids absolutely love it.”

            “I hope you're not downplaying your own role in these 'adventures',” said Sherlock seriously.

            “What?” came the confused reply.

            “Well, the sidekick is one of the most important characters,” Sherlock clarified, adopting a more light-hearted tone – he knew John hated being called a sidekick and, as expected, an irritated huff came from the other end of the line. “I'm serious, John. You're an important part of my job, you know.”

            “Yeah, I know,” said John, slightly awkward.

            “I'd probably be dead without you,” Sherlock insisted. “Whether from injuries, starvation or a nicotine overdose is debatable, but dead is something of a certainty.”

            “I'm sure you'd have survived,” John mumbled, likely fidgeting with his free hand. “You were fine before I came along, after all.”

            “Don't be ignorant, John, I know Lestrade told you about the drugs,” said Sherlock impatiently.

            “Yeah, but you got clean by yourself,” argued John.

            “Would I still be clean now without you?”

            That silenced the doctor quite well, and the line was quiet for a long moment until he finally spoke, dropping the subject altogether.

            “Well, anyway, I've figured out a way to keep the kids quiet when they're on my hands,” he said, “and I'm not likely to run out of stories anytime soon. Even my cousin Laura's kids love them, and they're all bloody teenagers. I mean, to be honest, I think Hannah's just slightly in love with you, and I _know_  Angela thinks we're shagging – God I can remember when she didn't even know what sex  _was;_  but Jeremy's coming dangerously close to hero-worshipping the both of us, though at least he's trying to be subtle about it. But I've definitely seen him trying to observe people. And who knows, he might not be doing too bad – I haven't been able to talk to him.”

            “Sounds like you're having fun,” Sherlock commented, trying not to sound bitter.

            John snorted. “Not at all,” he said ruefully. “I mean, there are a few highlights, but mostly it's just awkward conversations and dinners and boring events, and a hell of a lot of making sure someone's holding Harry's hair back and ignoring Uncle Hamish's dirty looks. Can't bloody wait to get back home, you'd better have a case when I get back, I don't want to have to come home to another of your sulks.”

            In that instant, Sherlock resolved to have something interesting for John, be it a case or a more sociable experiment, by the time he got back. “I'll try my best,” he said, though he knew John thought he was joking.

            “Well, anyway,” John sighed, “that's my rant over with. I think I'm meant to be on baby-sitting duty downstairs soon, so I might go grab something to drink first...” His intention to end the call was clear, and Sherlock found himself feeling suddenly desperate not to hand up.

            “John,” he blurted.

            “Mm?” came the distracted reply, and Sherlock  _hated_  the thought that something in Edinburgh could be better at holding John's attention than him. His mouth worked silently for a moment, and he knew John would be frowning at him.

            “Call again,” he said quickly.

            “Yeah, sure,” said John immediately, then paused thoughtfully, as if he'd only just heard Sherlock's request. “No, yeah, I will,” he amended, sounding sincere and pleasantly surprised. “All right, then –”

            “John?” Sherlock interrupted, before he could say his goodbyes.

            “Yeah?”

            It took a long moment of awkward silence and deliberation before Sherlock found himself talking, the words tumbling over themselves in their haste to be done with. “I miss you.”

            There was a quiet beat before John replied. “What?” he said with a slight, nervous chuckle.

            “I miss you,” Sherlock repeated, more slowly this time. Neither of them spoke for a long moment, and Sherlock concentrated hard on the hint of John's breath that he could hear, trying to distract himself from the silence that had become tense and unbearable.

            “Sherlock, if there's something you need,” John finally said, his voice soft – “I can come back early, you know. Just say the word, and –”

            “No, no, there's no need,” Sherlock said quickly. “Your place is in Edinburgh right now. Just –” He licked his lips, and imagined that John was likely doing the same. “Stay in touch, all right?”

            “Yeah,” John promised quietly. “Yeah, I will. Don't worry.”

            A high call of “John?” echoed over the phone, and there was a tinny rustle as John held the phone to his shoulder, accompanied by muffled voices. After a moment, John's voice returned.

            “Hey, Sherlock?” he said.

            “Yes?”

            “I – really do have to go now.” There was a heavy note of reluctance in John's voice, and Sherlock thought that it was likely that the doctor was about as willing to hang up now as himself. “I'll – I'll call you back, all right? Tonight, hopefully.”

            “Hopefully?” Sherlock repeated dryly.

            “Well – there's meant to be a big dinner thing tonight.” Sherlock could hear the wince in his voice. “My cousin Ed and his family are headed back to Australia tomorrow, so it's sort of a farewell thing. But I'll definitely email you, all right? Tonight, if I can't call. And I'll call you tomorrow, okay?”

            “That seems to be the best course of action,” said Sherlock flatly.

            “Okay, well – I'll talk to you later then,” said John. “See you in a week.”

            “Until then,” said Sherlock.

            “Bye.”

            Reluctantly, Sherlock took the phone from his ear and hung up. He kept the comforting weight in his hand for a moment before dropping it back to the table and taking up his bow once more.

            Sherlock Holmes didn't miss people; but as always, John was proving to be the exception to all of his rules.


End file.
